


The Little Things

by PrinceRoan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-23 00:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrinceRoan/pseuds/PrinceRoan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of semi-connected short chapters on Castiel dealing with humanity and becoming human. It's no easy road but he's got two good guides to direct him along the way. //discontinued</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hunger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first few chapters are based on season 4/5 Cas while the later chapters switch to post season 8 (noted at the top of the chapter).

At first, Castiel thinks his vessel is broken. There are many things he does not know about humans and this odd feeling in his vessel's gut is one of them. Strange noises are emitted from this area and when Castiel hears them he quickly bends down to listen. He concludes from the noises and the sensation that someone is tying knots in his vessel's stomach, that the body is trying to speak to him, tell him something. He does not understand.

Castiel is not always in this state. He is too busy and can go hours without feeling or noticing this confusing sensation. However, when he pauses for a few moments and things calm down and he can spare some time to breathe, it comes back, at times with a vengeance. His brothers had told him that vessel's need taking care of but now he wishes there had been a manual of sorts, like the one's he'd seen when the Winchester's would buy packaged goods from stores. On Earth, many things comes with instruction and Castiel likes this.

He considers asking Dean, but the hunter is always rushing from place to place. Dean is busy, and Sam is with him and Castiel has other things on his mind. When they work together no moment seems opportune to discuss his concerns. Castiel finds his moment anyway, though he did not mean to or expect it.

The Winchester's stop frequently when they drive from one county to the next. Castiel learns the difference between drive-in's and diners and understands why they call the substance served "fast-food". The Winchester's don't always sit in the establishments, the food is fast enough to be delivered to their hands so that they may leave right away, but they have sat in for a lunch or dinner. There is a time that Castiel joins them and he watches the going's on with interest. He sits quietly, declines a coffee and stares blankly at the menu when it is given to him. The waitress frequents their table more than she does the others and at first Castiel thinks that she is being merely polite but when he notices the way her cheeks redden and her smile brightens when either Dean or Sam, particularly Dean, speak to her, he thinks he's missing a point.

Dean orders a burger with fries and Sam doubles the order for himself. Castiel nods at the waitress when she asks if he'd like the same. When she is at a sufficient distance he looks toward the brothers.

"Why does she refer to me as 'honey'?"

Sam chuckles and Dean rolls his eyes and though Castiel does not take that as much of an answer he likes the way Sam reacts differently to Dean and Dean to Sam. It reminds him of the complexity of human beings. He does not interact much with others, so he takes special care to pay attention to the two that he does. This results in him generalizing some things that are not always true, but overall it leads to him feeling more and more at home with His creations. He likes humans.

"It's a pet-name," Sam explains.

Castiel frowns. "I am not a pet," he replies, wondering how the woman might have mistaken him for a house animal.

Dean sighs. "Not an actual pet, Cas."

"Sorry, I should have said a nick-name," Sam picks up apologetically. "It's just a term kind of like 'sweetie' or 'hun'," he continues.

Castiel nods slowly. "I have not heard either of you use these terms before."

Sam looks at him with a slightly open mouth and shrugs. "Not everyone uses it, I guess, it's just a habit for some people, I don't know."

"I see."

"Don't make it a habit," Dean chimes in, spying their platter of food coming from the kitchen doors. He smiles happily as his burger and fries is set down before him.

Castiel watches Dean with interest. He has often seen him smile in this way regarding edible provisions and he enjoys seeing it appear again and again on Dean's face. He notices that smile's are not singular or universal but very particular to the human from which they are emitted and various in shape and form, like humans themselves. Sam has a large mouth so he can smile wide, but he can also pinch his lips together and curl them up into an oddly shaped grin. It fascinates Castiel.

When they all have their plates and the smell of beef and cheese reaches him, a loud rumbling sound fills the air. Dean pauses mid-bite and puts down his burger and Sam hides his laugh behind his hand. Castiel feels the tightening in his vessel's gut again and his brows come down. Now seems opportune.

"Dean, I have been meaning to ask. My vessel is experiencing peculiar sensations here," and he takes the time to pat his abdomen and stomach. "Are these noises customary?"

"Seriously?" Dean asks with a raised brow. "It's called hunger Cas, you're hungry." He spares Sam a glance and bites into his burger with relish.

"Hunger," Castiel repeats. He is familiar with the term and has wondered when it would affect him. As an Angel he has never experienced such a thing but he has watched Dean and Sam eat enough food to make the connection and understand the correct response. He eyes the burger and opts to begin with a fry. Castiel takes a small bite and chews thoroughly. The fries are greasy and salty, crunchy at first but immediately soft when he chews them. "How often does this occur?"

Sam sips his cola and smiles at him. "Depends, you can go for hours and not feel hungry, other times you feel it every hour. Every metabolism is different."

Castiel listens and stuffs three fries in his mouth, licking one of his fingers subconsciously. "I do not enjoy feeling hungry."

Dean speaks through his full mouth with a mumble. "Then eat."

So he does, and at first he cannot comprehend how the more he eats the hungrier he feels until he's finished his platter, burger and all, and his stomach does not just feel satiated but distended. An internal gurgling travels up through his vessel and he belches loudly. This helps ease the swollen feeling and he sits back with a sigh.

Dean stares at him and Sam laughs openly, elbowing Dean in amusement. "I think he's got the hang of it," Sam says between breaths.

"Cas, wipe your mouth." Dean chucks a napkin across the table and watches the angel rub his lips into the tissue, looking a little sleepy though, reminding himself that angels don't sleep the heavy eyes he ascribes to feeling pleased after the meal. "You good?"

Castiel begins to answer but the waitress interrupts with the check and stays at the table as Sam counts out the bills. She smiles at the three of them. "Enjoy your meals?"

"I am no longer hungry," Castiel informs her. "Thank you."

She twirls a finger in her air and nods. "Glad you liked it, honey."

Dean watches her wink at Cas and rolls his eyes. "Let's go," he says and slide out of his seat, nodding at the waitress as he leaves.

As they walk toward the Impala, Castiel looks down at his stomach and touches it gingerly. "Hunger," he repeats to himself. Castiel mentally files away this information in his head and saves an image of a burger and fries next to it. Castiel likes burgers. He is glad his vessel is not broken and tells himself he has yet much to learn.


	2. Cold

If Castiel understands one thing it's that nothing is simple. This is especially true about the English language. He knows it like he knows every other language, though nothing comes as purely to him as Enochian. Regardless, he has a passable knowledge of English and thankfully so, because learning about humans is hard enough without the added hassle of not being able to communicate with them. What he comes to understand is that words often have more than one meaning and words are not always as simple as their definitions. You can experience them in different ways and Castiel experiences this firsthand.

The Winchesters are stopped at a motel room by an obscure highway, which seems more like an old two-lane country road through the plains. Castiel would have appeared directly in the room but Dean has often reproached him for this so he appears in the vacant lot next to the Impala instead. The sign to the "Valley Highway Motel" is supposed to be lit up entirely but only the "E" and "Y" of the first word are blinking in a spotty yellow so from far down the road all one can see are the two lamps in the parking lot and a large "EY".

The sky is dark with looming clouds and as he begins to walk toward the room a coolness spreads upon his cheek. Castiel stops and looks up. His cheeks are spattered by drops of water, slowly and gently at first and then he is washed over with rain. He closes his eyes and wonders at the feeling. His scalp is cooled pleasantly and the way the water trickles by his collar and down his chest makes him shiver. Castiel opens his mouth to taste the rain and holds out a hand to catch it as it falls. He has seen people carry devices to ward off the rain (Dean calls them umbrellas) but Castiel cannot understand in this moment why they would avoid such a pleasant feeling.

In the silence, the pitter-patter against the motel roof, the hood of the Impala and the ground all come together into one glorious sound that resounds in his ears. It drowns out everything and commands the night. Castiel can feel the clouds moving in the sky and the very earth beneath him sigh with relief as the rains relieves its dryness. The air begins to smell of damp fields and Castiel revels in it.

When he is drenched through and his clothes begin to sag and his shoes begin to fill with the rain water he experiences discomfort. His first step forward sounds with a squelch and the drops of rain falling from his hair go directly into his eyes so that he has to blink constantly to see. The wind picks up and angles the rain so that it no longer gently splashes him but pricks him instead and he puts a hand up to protect his face. He's a few metres away from the room and quickens through the sleet, knocking at the door despite being able to shift right through it.

Sam opens the door and his eyes widen. He tugs Castiel inside and holds him by his shoulders. "Hey, hey, buddy," he says urgently, but with a soothing undertone.

Castiel does not understand the concern in Sam's eyes until his shoulders are released and his teeth begin to chatter along with the shivers wracking his frame. The way his clothes stick to him make him feel clammy and enclosed in a sticky paste. He moves his arms around himself to stop the tremors.

"What the hell," Dean curses as he comes out of the bathroom. "Bring him in here," he says to Sam.

Castiel is conducted to the bathroom and his arms are pried from around him so that Sam can rid him of his trench coat. He glimpses himself in the mirror and notices the paleness of his skin and blueness of his lips. "I'm c-c-cold," he stutters. Dean shrugs his tie off so sharply that he is pulled forward and he has to steady himself.

"Why are you drenched?"

Castiel allows his shirt to be unbuttoned and turns to Dean with furrowed brows. "Dean, it's raining." An exasperated sigh reaches his ears and he's turned around.

"Yeah, I get that, but why were you standing out there? Can't you just appear inside the room?"

"You have repeatedly expressed concerns about that," Castiel mumbles, not completely able to enunciate his words.

Dean sighs and hands Sam the wet clothes. "Okay, take this," he says and hands Cas a towel. Upon noticing how weakly Castiel takes it, he rips it out of his fingers and drapes the material around him himself.

Dean roughly pats Cas' shoulder's and arm's down. "You know Cas," he begins, taking care to pat him and not caress him with the towel as he works his way down his torso "it's not a good idea to just stand around in the rain."

Castiel hums shortly, which is his way of chuckling. His arms feel less frozen so he reaches down to take the towel from Dean's hands. In doing so he accidentally places his fingers over Dean's. Castiel would not have thought anything of it had not Dean so suddenly retracted his hand and stepped away. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Dean says, though it comes more curtly than intended. He turns to leave and stops by the door. "Take everything off and give it to Sam, he'll give you some clothes."

Castiel wants to thank him, but Dean has already left. Castiel peels off his soaking pants and shoes and dries himself. He catches the sight of his exposed flesh in the mirror and pauses, considering his vessel closely. He pokes at his chest and hips and runs his fingers down his meaty thighs. The hair by his navel is dark and curls upwards. He's lean, but muscular, with strong arms. Castiel does not feel anything other than mild interest in the body he occupies. He asks Sam for clothes and an arm is thrust through the crack in the door. Castiel opens the door wide and pops an eyebrow at Sam, who is standing sideways to him and has his head turned as far away as possible. "Sam, are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm good."

Castiel takes the clothes and withdraws, closing the door behind him. The jeans feel rough against his skin, not like the cotton material of his pants and the black t-shirt he shrugs on hangs on his small frame slightly. He pinches the material between his thumb and index finger and lifts it to his nose. Dean. Letting the material slip, he looks at his hand, recalling the way Dean had recoiled at his touch.

When he enters the motel room and Sam gives him an approving nod, he asks where Dean has gone.

"I think he said he went to fill up the tank."

Castiel shuffles over to the single bed by the air conditioner and glances at Sam before sitting down. Again he looks down at his palm and then his fingers and though his body has returned to its correct temperature Castiel feels odd. He looks at Sam. "I'm cold."

Sam puts down his book and walks over to thermostat to turn it up. "You'll feel better in a few minutes."

Castiel sits still. This coldness has nothing to do with body temperature. He thinks on it for some time and decides he'd rather be shivering because of the rain than feeling like this because that type of cold hurt less than this one.


	3. Doubt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on 4x16

The first time Castiel questions the orders of heaven—that is, when the words "heaven" and "wrong" come dangerously close to being one in his mind—a demon's wails and groans are filling his vessel's ears. It is not on the demon's account that Castiel is bruising the skin of his vessel's knuckles on the table and it is equally not for the demon's sake that he's standing with head bowed and eyes screwed up tight. His vessel's knuckles scrape against the grooves in the wood and Castiel presses harder. It is not as though he feels any pain from this action, but it keeps him from moving. When the gurgling cries fall silent and the room echoes with the hollow sound of metal clinking against metal, Castiel straightens, eyes open and turned forlornly to the ceiling. Turning his palms up in supplication he whispers: "Please."

Another grunt sounds followed by a low chuckle and then screaming, such piercing wails, the likes of which he's seldom heard. Castiel's eyes close again. This is revelation and revelation is absolute. For thousands of years no event—not the flood, not Sodom and Gomorrah—has made him question this assertion. Castiel believes in revelation because he believes in the righteousness of heaven. And heaven needs Dean. The human refuses, insults his superior (to which Castiel sucks in a breath because he fears that Uriel is close to reacting for once), insults God and flat out belittles the entirety of the heavenly host. Dean insults God. All of this should serve as a cold reminder that Castiel is here with orders, not with negotiations and compromises—certainly not with feelings.

"I'd like to speak to Cas, alone."

And Uriel leaves. Uriel leaves and they're alone and Castiel—angel of the Lord, soldier of heaven, ageless celestial being—crumbles. He does not fall to the ground or lower his head, he does not even lower his eyes when Dean looks at him. But when Dean says that they can't ask him to do this, Castiel's resolve shakes, trembles. And Castiel doubts. This little seedling (how long has it been there?) cracks open and blossoms. Castiel doesn't tell Dean this, nor does he intend to outwardly agree. This is a heavenly command and he will throw Dean into that room if he has to, even if he doesn't want to. Angels are dying.

"My superiors have begun to question my sympathies, I was getting too close to the humans in my charge—you. They feel I've begun to express emotions, doorways to doubt. This can impair my judgment."

"You ask me to open that door and walk through it, you will not like what walks back out."

Can impair my judgment. Castiel should have said does impair, is impairing. He knows the Dean that will walk out of that room. Castiel felt it in the cracks of Dean's soul when he pulled him out of hell. "I would give anything not to have you do this." Castiel means every word, even as Dean does walk through the door, even as Dean picks up the knife drenched in holy water and makes the first cut, elicits that first scream. Castiel means every single word, worthless though they are. And then Anna appears, just barely disturbing the air, and she waters the little seedling with her words, going so far as to align them together, to touch his hand.

"Together?"

Castiel is a soldier. Castiel did not fall, will not fall. "I am nothing like you." But he doesn't call Uriel down, even though there are orders to apprehend Anna and here she is before him and it would be so easy to...

He lets her go. Castiel is left with a fallen angels words, biting accusations looping in his head. Why are you doing this?

He focuses back on the sounds coming from the other room. It takes him a moment to discern the cause of his uneasiness. Within a blink he materializes on the other side of the door, taking in the sight of Dean; bloodied, feet dangling, a hand closed tight around his neck. Castiel steps forward, Dean falls to the floor, eyes rolling back into his head, while Castiel pushes the demon knife into Alastair's chest. The rest either passes too quickly or too slowly, Castiel can't decide which. There's something new—indecision. Alastair is strong, his hands cold on his vessel's skin and all he really remembers accurately is the feeling of being forced out of Jimmy's body, being burned out of it. Castiel's only concern in that moment is holding on, hooking into his vessel with all his power because Dean is lying helpless on the floor and Castiel has to hold on. Sam forces Alastair off of him, throws him to the wall and Castiel can picture him even now; outstretched hand, lips drawn tight, veins sticking out hard by his neck and by his temple. Castiel watches a single line of blood run from Sam's nose and colour his top lip. He is only glad that Dean was not awake to see it.

It's not one moment in particular that he realizes. It's every moment, every look, the sensation of falling though he's clearly grounded and sitting in an uncomfortable chair in a sterile and dim hospital room. It's more than doubt. A single tear rolls down Dean's cheek and Castiel forces himself to watch. His eyes follow the yellowing, bruised skin of Dean's face and the trail of cuts across his cheek to his bandaged head. A strange mouthpiece covers his nose and lips, and Dean's breath fogs up the casing and disappears in patches. Castiel listens to the monitors at Dean's side beeping, watches the red line climbing up and down in regular intervals, closes his eyes as Dean turns away. Maybe it's then, when Dean turns away or maybe the second after when he does. Perhaps its the moment when instead of asking himself "why are you doing this?" another question plagues him.

What have you done?


	4. Fatigue

Angels do not sleep. 

Castiel goes on for months at a time, wandering streets and appearing from one state to the next without needing a "breather" as Dean sometimes calls it. He is fascinated by the human body's 8-hour requirement for rest and is even more fascinated by the Winchesters functionality with much less. As he comes to understand it, without sleeping humans cannot function properly; their minds haze, their movements become lethargic and one way or another the body receives what it desires, whether through a fainting spell or by simply burning out. He's seen these effects firsthand and is glad he does not have to suffer these constraints.

Castiel has seen Sam read into the early morning hours, red-eyed and quiet; he's seen him stare at his laptop until he can smell Sam's eyeballs burning. He knows it would irritate the Winchesters, particularly Dean, if they knew how many nights Castiel had appeared in their motel room, found them both asleep and simply waited. He tries not to make a habit of it but there is something soothing in these moments that he enjoys. Every waking hour their faces are worked by worry and anger, at times fear, a continual string of shifting expressions. However, at night all these twitches and exhaustive facial exercises cease. At night they look at peace and Castiel revels in the rare opportunity to see that on their faces.

Still, Castiel is glad he does not suffer from this limitation, he is glad he is not such a slave to time—not entirely, at least. Heaven's powers can be exhausted, especially when they cut the telephone line so to speak. Castiel retains enough "angel mojo" (another of Dean's colloquialisms) to be able to help the Winchesters out but he knows it won't last. So, on some days, Castiel feels weary. Tired. How odd it is, for an Angel of Heaven to have to pause and close his eyes for a moment, to rest. The more time passes the more frequent this becomes. He can feel it first in his movements; each one begins to require a conscious effort, one that he doesn't care to make. Castiel finds vehicle's slow but on bad days it beats appearing in the Winchesters motel room with a light head and having to hold on to a table or chair to steady himself. Especially in front of them.

Lately his hand has been finding need of these things more and more. As if the closer they get to the fated battle the harder heaven tries to shut him out, shut him off. He wonders how long he'll last.

"Cas, we're getting strange weather in Wisconsin, but I can't tell if it's demonic omens or not."

Castiel looks at Sam's laptop screen and nods gravely though he doesn't understand the strange hills marked in blue and red zigzagging lines running across the graphs.

Sam turns in his chair and raises his eyebrows. "Uhm, could you maybe check?"

"Yes." He takes a moment, a moment too long it seems because Dean's eyes narrow and his lips tighten into a thin line as he watches him, and disappears before Dean can say a word.

In Wisconsin the winds are malevolent. Whipping up to slap you across one cheek and then doubling back to hit the other and Castiel watches people hurry down the street with their hands covering their faces. The rain comes down relentlessly, beating atop roofs and against window panes, hammering the ground. The roads become rivers and gutters overflow, bringing up dead leaves and dirt to mire the walkways. Castiel leans against the nearest wall and steals a shaky breath. His vision clears up quickly and he focuses on ascertaining whether or not there is a demonic presence in the state. He can feel them in the town and materializes near the city hall; it is covered with sigils. Castiel thinks there are a dozen or so demons gathered in the building, enough to warrant some serious attention. There is something happening of importance. Castiel touches two fingers to his temple and closes his eyes, counting the number of times his head pounds until it subsides. He takes out his cell phone and blindly punches in Dean's number.

The line rumbles once to announce a connection and then dies, blaring static into his ear. Zero bars. Castiel looks up into the blackened clouds and sighs. He walks out into the street and closes his eyes against the onslaught of rain and wind. When he opens his eyes again he's facing Dean, well perhaps not directly, all he sees is the dark gold of the amulet he wears around his neck. It seems to swing, though he realizes as he falls forward that it rests calmly against Dean's chest. He holds out a hand to brace himself against whatever he can and feels a strong hand curl around his forearm and hold him up.

"Cas?"

"I'm alright." More than anything he is not, but Castiel would never let the words fall from his lips. Not in front of them. He appreciates the fact that Dean doesn't let him go and just barely leans against his side. "They're there. Perhaps a dozen."

"Why?"

Castiel shakes his head, ignoring the way the walls bend in and out around Sam's head. "I couldn't get in."

Sam nods and closes his laptop. "Okay, let's go."

Dean nudges him forward. "Can you stand?"

No. But he nods anyway and pulls himself together. Castiel slowly moves back to lean against the desk after Dean lets him go. He can see the Winchesters glance at him as they pack and then share a concerned look. He imagines that they're thinking "what the hell are we going to do with him?" Now that he's slowly becoming useless, he doesn't blame them. But right now they are the only thing he's got. "Do you-"

"Backseat is all yours," Dean says over his shoulder as he shoves a rifle into the duffel bag on the bed. He doesn't dare turn, doesn't want to meet Castiel's eyes, refuses to acknowledge that the bags he sometimes sees under them are not markings of Jimmy wearing down but Castiel.

Castiel's lips twitch upward as he looks at Dean's back, at the worn leather of his jacket, his gruff voice echoing in his head, more of a command than an invitation. He is thankful that Dean looks at him, visibly hesitates but nonetheless shrugs the strap of the duffel bag onto his shoulder and leaves the room. Wordlessly, all wordlessly and Castiel breathes out his relief. The last thing he wants are words, tones of concern, gentleness, acknowledging his...fragility. But this is Dean, and Dean is anything but gentle. Castiel walks out of the room stiffly, taking his time, eyes on the Impala and when he gets close enough, close enough to let his burning lungs exhale, he stumbles and braces himself against the car.

Dean walks over and takes Cas by the elbow, opens the door and lets him slide in. He catches Sam's eye over the roof of the Impala, both are grim. They drive out onto a two-lane road, caught between dry plains and quiet nondescript towns. Dean can't help but glimpse Cas in the rearview mirror, looking nearly haggard—an odd word to describe an angel, but apt for one as rundown as Castiel. The dusty road ahead of him is a relief and he focuses on it instead. "Cas."

Castiel flinches at the gentle tone. "Yes, Dean?"

"You should get some sleep."

"Yes," Castiel sighs and folds his arms, leaning his head against the window. Outside, the edge of the road blurs past and dust billows out from the back wheels, leaving a misty trail behind the car. Castiel stares until he feels his eyes burning and finally closes them. The relief that washes over him makes him bitter, just another reminder of his fall from grace. "I think I might."


	5. Laughter

Neither Dean nor Sam question Castiel when he begins to appear more often in their presence. No one asks him what he wants or if he'll leave, they just carry on with the task at hand. Dean always curses when he appears in the backseat of the Impala and glares at him through the rear-view mirror.

"How many times do I have to tell you not to do that?"

Castiel tilts his head and meets Dean's eye in the reflective glass. "I'm sorry, Dean."

"Yeah, whatever," Dean grumbles. Cas, despite all his formalities and sharp edged demeanor, likes to sprawl out in the back seat of the Impala much to Dean's amusement. Perhaps he thinks that no one will notice, kind of like the way Dean hopes no one notices the fact that he cleans out the backseat more often; it won't do for Cas to sit back there amid old paper bags stained with ketchup and mustard or piles of maps and printed pages of lore and myth. He doesn't really think Castiel would mind, but since the angel starts to occupy the spot more and more he might as well have a clean spot. Only logical.

"Are you in the midst of a hunt?"

Sam shakes his head. "Nope, caught us on vacation, Cas. We're taking a few days."

"Oh," Castiel says quietly. On hunting trips, Castiel has something to do. Sam shares his readings with him and Castiel knows much that the books don't. They usually leave it to Castiel to get people to safety and sometimes swipe their memories if he's up to it, just to makes things easier on them. It's bad enough countless people the Winchesters have met are walking around scared of the dark but with Castiel there they can deal out some merciful memory wiping. Ignorance can truly be bliss in some cases. If the Winchester's are not on a hunting trip there really isn't a point of Castiel being there—at least, this is what the angel himself thinks. The world is open to him; he could go to Jerusalem, that always suits him or to Scotland to walk along the green hills and look out upon the sea from peaked crags, anything he wants, anywhere. He hesitates. Despite all of the places he can be he's loathe to leave the leather seats of the Impala. He likes it here.

Dean watches Castiel closely. Head bent, fingers tracing circles into the seat, you'd think someone had scolded him. It's not hard for him to figure out what the angel is thinking, the last few times he's popped in on them while they weren't hunting he'd immediately disappeared. Dean eases on the gas and thinks. A few miles more they'll be passing a small town. "Sam, you hungry?"

"I could go for something, yeah."

Dean nods, checks on his fuel and glances back at Castiel. "Cas, up for a burger?"

Castiel has an affinity for greasy foods. Granted, it's the only thing he's really tried because it's the only thing the Winchester's generally eat but he doesn't mind. He looks up but Dean has his eyes on the road. "Yes."

"Alright, then," Dean says and switches lanes. It's around nine o'clock when they park in front of the diner, unceremoniously called the "Pit Stop." The little plaza is bare, containing the diner, a gas station, a convenience store and down the road a shoddy looking motel that even the Winchester's wouldn't stay at. The place runs twenty-four hours a day though the menu clocks out in shifts—breakfast, lunch, dinner. The least you could get in the early morning hours is a strong coffee and pastry. They're in time for dinner, which ends at eleven and the place is surprisingly full. The back-lot is packed with trucks and the diner is playing host to the drivers.

Dean leads the way to an empty table and passes a cursory glance at the patrons. His instinct tells him to try to keep the stay to a minimum, the crowd looks a little rough. Beer bellies, torn sleeves with jeans to match and obnoxious laughter; all signs of men who frequent dim bars and enjoy a good brawl. Dean should know, he's instigated a few of these himself. He lets Sam know with a glance that he's not planning a long stay and his brother nods at him. As long as they keep to themselves, everything should be—

"Whattr' you looking at?"

Damn. Dean turns with a sigh and takes Castiel by the shoulder. "Nothing, he's not looking at anything," he says hastily and shoves Castiel into the stall, taking a seat next to him and blocking him from view. "Jeez, Cas."

"Dean, that man seemed angry."

Sam snorts and hands out the menus. "The wings are on special," he comments absently as he flips through the pages.

"Make it a combo with the fries," Dean adds and leans forward to find the waitress. From what he can tell there are only two girls working the tables, clearly stressed by the amount of people in the diner. He suspects the place doesn't see this much action on a daily basis. As one of them rushes back to kitchen window and hands the cook an order, Dean raises his hand to wave her over. He gives her a charming smile but decides to reign in the temptation to flirt, he can tell she wouldn't be up for it. "Wings combo, two cokes and..."

Castiel narrows his eyes at the menu. "A beef burger deluxe."

Dean side-glances Cas and looks back up at the waitress. "And a beef burger deluxe with an iced tea."

She jots the order down on her notepad and gathers up the menus. "Coming up."

Two tables behind the Winchesters they hear a small cry and then heady laughter. Dean peeks out from their table and frowns. The waitress is flushed pink and holding a clenched hand against her backside.

"Sweetheart, I asked for barbeque sauce fifteen minutes ago."

"I'm sorry, sir, I'll get it for you."

"Don't get lost on the way back," the man says and grins lecherously. His buddies waggle their brows at her and burst into laughter as she walks away.

"Pigs," Dean mutters under his breath as he turns away.

"Dean, what is an 'iced tea'?" Castiel inquires.

"Sweet drink, no fizz. I know you hate coke."

It's a while before the waitress comes with their order and in the meanwhile as she's serving other tables that same man who had pinched her keeps hollering obscenities and laughing away with his buddies at every comment he makes. Dean starts to clench and unfurl his fist on the table and Sam worries his bottom lip, knowing that if this goes on for much longer it won't end well.

When their food finally comes the waitress apologizes profusely and Dean has to assure her several times that everything is fine. Sam adds that they're sorry about the idiot harassing her and she thanks them. The wait has made them rather famished and they dig into the platter of wings with relish, not caring about sticky fingers. Dean sucks down a chicken wing and pokes his fingers into Sam's cheek, smearing it with sauce. "Oops."

"Dean, seriously?" Sam sighs and wipes his cheek with a napkin.

"Seriously," Dean says and though his eyes are on Sam, he slides his finger across one of the wings and shoves it into Castiel's face. When he turns, Cas is holding his burger mid-way to his lips, he pauses and then bites down. As he chews, he drags his palm across his cheek and then considers the dark sauce on his skin before licking a stripe up to his pinky. Dean swallows harshly and turns away.

"How much do you think she's willing to do for a tip?" The man two tables behind them snickers and elbows his buddy. "I'd be generous."

Dean straightens up and wipes his fingers. "Sammy, take the rest to go."

"Dean..."

"Hey, buddy. Why don't you try asking me for a tip?" Dean says as he stands, smiling contemptuously. "I can be generous too."

The bearded man scoffs and shrugs out of his seat, belly first. "You say something boy?" Two of his friends stand up, grinning. The diner falls silent and the squeak of leather sounds as people strain forward out of their seats to watch. 

Dean fixes his collar and stares at the man with raised brow. He says nothing, just purses his lips and mock-kisses him in the air. "Come on, big boy."

The bear-sized trio chuckle and step forward.

Before either side can make another move, a grating sound hits everyone's ear, as though someone had ripped a piece of paper near a microphone.

Dean frowns, perplexed. "Uhm?"

Simultaneously, all three men stare down at their exposed thighs as their jeans slip off onto the floor. One is wearing boxers with a pink heart pattern, another sports a rocket-ship printed pair and the third...

"Oh Jesus, man!" Dean cries out and covers his face. "Why?"

The howling that erupts in the room makes it difficult for the boys to hear each other and they leave cash on table before slipping out the door. Dean snorts and then doubles over. "Sam, did you see their faces?"

"I thought they were going to cry," Sam answers, wiping away tears. "How did that even happen?"

Castiel watches the Winchesters and takes a sip of his iced tea, smacking his lips. "He should not have been so rude."

Dean peers at Castiel and his bottom lip trembles. "Cas, you didn't. Did you?"

Castiel looks straight at Dean and just barely smiles. Without answering, he gets into the backseat. The Winchesters take their seats, laughing warmly. Castiel listens to the rumbling sound with a crooked smile. He can see tears running down Dean's cheek in the rear-view mirror, the flush of his cheeks, his eyes shut tight and experiences such a pleasant flush of warmth in his body that for a moment it frightens him. He looks down at his fingers and then touches his cheeks, they feel warm. His chest rumbles and a bubbly chuckle escapes his lips, short and low, as though he were experimenting with it. 

Sam turns around and stares at him, smiling widely. "Good job, Cas."

Castiel sips on his iced tea and meets Dean's gaze in the rear-view mirror, he smiles around the straw at his lips and Dean's eyes widen. "Thank you, Dean. I like iced tea." 

Dean nods and drops his gaze. "Sure," he mumbles and starts the engine. "Good."

Sam taps his knuckles against the dashboard and smiles. "Cas, you know, you should come with us more often."

"On hunts?" Castiel asks, eyeing the back of Sam's head. 

"No, no, like this. When we're not hunting."

Dean rolls his eyes and drops a hand from the wheel, curling it into a fist on his knee. _Great._ Castiel's silence makes him glance at the mirror and of course, Castiel's looking at him, always that same gaze, entirely blank but with an underlying wealth of emotion that unnerves him. Dean frowns and looks back at the road. This is not for him to answer. Castiel can do as he pleases and all Dean will do is clean the backseat once in a while, maybe let his hand rest where Castiel sits for a second too long. "Do you even feed yourself when you're on your own?" Dean doesn't bother looking at Castiel, he can sense the head tilt, feel it in the air. 

"No," Castiel says.

"Well, there we go," Dean says, not entirely comprehending the meaning of his own words—which, apparently Sam doesn't either, because he can see Sam turn to look at him. He nods his head ostentatiously. Whether or not Castiel understands him is altogether a mystery to him. 

"Alright."

That's all the angel says and to Dean it makes about as much sense as his own words. It only becomes apparent to him that Castiel took his words as approval when they begin to regularly hit the diners à trois and he stops thinking about that fact with any sort of conscious reflection. Cas just is. Just him, Sam, Cas and iced teas. Castiel likes iced tea.


	6. Longing

Castiel begins to feel in ways he never thought possible, in ways that had only been abstract concepts in his mind. He has watched over the earth for centuries; he's seen joy and sorrow, rage and lust, confusion and guilt, emotions that have a secured place among faces. Lips can curl up or down, eyebrows knit close together or soar far above the eyes in shock, nostrils can flare, cheeks can redden, fingers curl into fists, eyes darken or brighten and yet so much more, so many more that go unseen, that travel through the blood, affect the inside more than the outside. The undercurrents of emotion that make the heart beat faster or the body feel cold, things that can go unseen in eyes or lips, things one must suffer alone. As Castiel is now.

Castiel breathes in deeply, filling his vessel's lungs to the full. He holds the air until the pressure builds in his chest and then releases it in a gasp, choking on the waves he tries to breathe in while exhaling. He lets himself fall. The stones of the shoreline scrape against his knees through the soft material of his pants, press against his skin coldly, wet. The water soaks his pants as it crawls onto shore and then leaves the wind to chill him as it rushes back to the sea. Castiel places his palm into the sand and watches his fingers disappear, swallowed up by the smooth little grains. It's reckless of him to be travelling so far with such limited power, but he wipes the blood dripping from his nose and lets it fade into the mild salt water of the Baltic sea. He's secluded on a little stretch of beach in the company of sharp rocks and cold water, but mainly the air—it is what he has come for. The closest he's come to tasting Heaven again. Dean and Sam could never even imagine it, how pure it tastes, how invigorating, how much like home. Cities are polluted, forests damp, but here in this little pocket of Eastern Europe it is pure.

Castiel stands up on trembling legs, feeling the sting of skin that can and will bruise and hides his fingers into his coat pockets. The sky above him is cloudy but hidden behind the haze is a sky so blue as to be nearly blinding. For a moment, the clouds pull apart and the sea glazes over with the azure tint. Heaven feels close when he looks up into the sky, even though technically it is not really "up" there. Castiel thinks he understands why the humans connect the two, paradise in the sky, unreachable but there, always there. He closes his eyes and breathes in slowly, focusing, mustering the power of his grace to establish a connection, perhaps hear the whispers of his brothers, but only the waves bubbling upon the shoreline answer him. Castiel longs for home, the only home and the only family he's ever known. It is lonely on earth, incredibly lonely. The dusty streets of Jerusalem stop comforting him, the faithful in the streets make him sick. Castiel does not return to Jerusalem after he catches himself wondering what the faithful would think if they knew that even the angels doubt God, that even the angels could fail Him, could fail humanity.

Silently, he walks down the shore, shivering as the water laps at his ankles. Not even a heavenly whisper graces his ears and for a split second he's ice cold, thinking that it's finally happened, that he's got nothing left, not even enough to get him home. And then it hits him— _home—_ a distant voice at first and then all at once it's the only thing he can hear. That time it wasn't Heaven he'd meant. The thought stops him, his breath caught between a sigh and a groan.   
  
 _Cas_.

Oh.

His grace is still there, quiet but surging in his vessel now, vibrating at his fingertips. Castiel flinches, disturbed by the intrusion into his mind. He remembers asking Gabriel about it, about what prayer was like—after all, it was Gabriel's name in the Holy book, not his— but, Gabriel had never told him.  Now, Castiel thinks that had the archangel been in his vessel he would have grinned, snapped his fingers and disappeared. No one tells him whether or not he can minimize the effect but Castiel suspects he can, though he never follows up on the hunch. These days Dean's prayers feel like the only link he has to Heaven, the only thing reminding him that he's still an Angel.  
  
 _We need your help._

Castiel resists the pull though it's as insistent as the echo of Dean's voice in his head. He still marvels at his reaction, can hardly imagine taking another step without stretching his wings and answering, reaching out. It's very much like Dean to call him at such an inopportune moment, to interfere with his plan to journey back slowly, stopping to rest when need be, never utilizing too much power, but now...

_Cas, come on._

Dean's not pleading, not in the least. His voice is growing more aggravated, frustrated with the delay and Castiel's skin burns hotter and his fingers curl into his palm. He's still standing on the same beach, breathing the same air, listening to the same waves but his mind is focused only on Dean's voice. His head drops down and within the space of a breath all that's left on the beach are his footprints. The waves rush in to devour the evidence and then slink back, satisfied that there is no longer a trace, no memory of him on the sands.  Where he is it's dark, the smell of it is thick, heavy with dust and mothballs but it's soft too, comfortable on his back though his head swims. The grip on his arm is unmistakable, though muffled by two layers of material covering him. 

"Looks like it was a long trip." 

_Sam._

Castiel relaxes, knowing he's made it the full way. Inexplicably his mouth moves, without his consent, indeed without his knowing for he's already curling up in the darkness for respite. His ears don't hear the words, but it doesn't matter, there is only so much one can say in that short a breath.  It reaches the ears they are meant for.   
  
"Dean."

There's a warm gust against his cheek, it tickles his hair and the fingers around his arm squeeze tightly.

"Yeah, I got you."


	7. Nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since Fallen!Cas is now official, this fic (which previously centered on s4 and s5 Cas) is going to focus on post s8 Cas and his full mortality. Same concept with minor differences.

Castiel feels cold metal in his hand, but he knows its burning. His vessel's fingers curl into a tight grip and his whole body hums as his grace flows into the angel blade. It's familiar in his hand, comforting in a way – he knows how to twist and turn it into fatal blows. He watches as fingers reach up toward him, looks on as trails of blood cascade past bruised knuckles and calloused palm.

“Cas, please.”

For the thousandth time his vessel's muscles grow taut and in one deft movement he plunges the steel tip between fragile ribs. Castiel holds steady until the hilt of his blade meets resistance and bubbles of red gurgle past chapped lips. He withdraws the blade with a squelch in time with the last beats of the strongest heart he's ever known. Thick lashes close over what he knows to be brilliantly green eyes and he feels fingers squeeze his shoulder. A thud echoes in the still air and a woman's voice breathes out by his ear: “now, you are ready.”

It's 3 A.M and Castiel lurches forward, eyes blown wide in horror, lungs burning. With wheezing breaths he heaves in damp air, fingers clenched in the sheets of his bed. He's soaked through with sweat and peels his t-shirt off, his heart pounding in his ears. He sits on the edge of the bed and puts his head down, breathing in intervals of three like Dean taught him to.

He knows very well that he's reliving old memories, in dreams that are so vividly clear that he can smell blood in the air when he wakes - but, they're memories and he breathes in again and again until he regains a semblance of calm. He knows even more certainly that down the hall Dean's lying safely in bed with one leg unceremoniously hanging off the edge of the bed and with one side of his face mashed into the pillow; Castiel's lost count of how many times he's padded down the hall in the early hours of the morning to peek his head through Dean's door just to see that very picture.

Castiel doesn't _need_ to check but inevitably finds himself at Dean's door. When he walks in he breathes in the scent of woodsy cologne, gunpowder, leather and sun-kissed skin that makes him think of freckles and forest green eyes. Dean's lying in bed and Castiel stands in the doorway, recalling the sensation of overwhelming power coursing through him, vibrating in his fingertips and hearing a croaked ' _I need you'_ echo in his head louder than anything he'd ever heard. He turns to leave and pushes the door, wincing as it creaks and splits the silence. Behind him a ruffle of sheets sounds and with a rough, sleep laden voice Dean calls his name.

“Cas?”

Castiel turns and steps back into the room, fingers pinching the cotton material of his pyjama pants. “Yes. I'm sorry I woke you.” Dean is quiet and Castiel stands nervously near the door not sure if the silence means he should leave or await further word.

Finally, Castiel sees Dean sit up and though he can't quite make out Dean's face in the dark he knows that Dean's watching him.

“Again?” Dean asks.

Castiel nods and then checks himself. “Yes,” he replies in a small voice, quiet and far more telling than he means to be. He can hear Dean sigh.

“Come on,” Dean says, trying to sound light, “I'll make you tea.”

Castiel waits outside of the room and then silently follows Dean, stopping by his bedroom to don a plain grey t-shirt before heading into the kitchen. Out of the few months that Castiel's been living in the bunker he's learned his way around and managed to master a few simple meals but he always lets Dean make the tea. Dean points to the table and Castiel sits down. Dean joins him shortly and sits across from him, eyes still puffy from sleep.

“You want to talk about it?”

Castiel shakes his head. “No, not particularly.” He says this yet sees in Dean's face every splatter of blood and every bruise that he'd caused, can feel pressure on his wrist where Dean's fingers had held on as he reached down to heal him. They are both quiet until the piercing sound of the kettle whistling in the kitchen fills the air. Castiel nods as Dean places a cup before him and absently stirs the brew, smelling faintly of lemon and honey. “Thank you.”

“Cas,” Dean says, levelling his gaze, “this needs to stop. You can't keep doing this to yourself. It happened and it's over. We move on.”

Castiel drops his gaze to Dean's hands and nods. It's all he can do and Dean's face is so earnest and concerned that Castiel wants to promise him all sorts of things. He turns his head when he hears the floorboards creek behind him and his eyes alight on Sam, his lumbering figure stooped slightly, mouth stretched into a yawn.

“Hey Sammy,” Dean greets as he stands, not bothering to ask before he takes out a third cup and hands Sam tea.

"It's like the fourth time this month I've found you guys here, everything alright?" Sam asks as he sits, closing his fingers over the cup and leaning in to inhale the steam. 

Dean responds for Castiel and Castiel thanks him with his eyes, sipping on his tea while the brothers chat. There's nothing in his experience that compares to these moments in the early hours of the morning where the three of them just sit with their mugs in hand and Sam's hair is splayed in different directions and Dean's face is slightly swollen from sleep; Castiel does little talking but he doesn't need to when the low timbre of Sam's voice and Dean's rough, sleepy tones flow in waves around him, soothing every fear and doubt in his chest. Neither of them will ever know just how much it means to him to have a bed in a room down the hall from one brother and two doors from the other; to have been offered a home when he was homeless.   
  
"I'm going to try to get a few more hours of sleep before we head out," Sam says, leaving his cup by the sink before shuffling out of the room and back to bed.   
  
Dean looks after Sam until he can no longer hear steps down the hall and shifts his gaze to Castiel, whose eyes are already on him. "You done?"

Castiel nods gratefully and holds out his cup for Dean to take, gaze flicking up to Dean's face when he feels the brush of Dean's fingers on his skin. There's no longer an electric charge that shocks him at the touch, not like before, when the very essence of Dean would surge up through his fingertips and he would feel the full force of what he'd forged by raising Dean out of Hell, but it is warm, something he'd never noticed before falling. "Thank you." 

"Cas," Dean begins with an exasperated sigh, turning around with purpose in his eyes which just as soon settles into a grim line on his lips, he pauses. 

Castiel stands and pushes in his chair, fingers lingering on the wood, eyes on Dean, waiting. Dean says nothing but clenches his jaw and Castiel shrugs. "I'm fine," he lies, still reeling from the events months before, hell, he's still reeling from events from years before - they all are. "We all have our own demons, Dean." 

Dean scoffs. "Nice word choice," he says dryly, eyes moving about Castiel's face. "Look man, if you need to talk -"

"I know," Castiel interrupts, attempting a light smile, which still feels odd though not entirely unpleasant. "Dean," Castiel says, walking over to the hunter, still in the habit of closing the space between them, until he's close enough to see the freckles on Dean's cheeks, "I'm fine." 

Dean looks little assured, but his shoulders come down and his face relaxes. "Alright, well, get some rest," he says lamely, reaching up to pat Cas' shoulder. 

Castiel stills when Dean's hand comes up to his cheek, just barely brushing his skin. Castiel sees Dean's eyes widen, feels him stiffen though he's not touching him. Dean's fingers curl into his palm and the brief touch lingers on Castiel's skin though Dean's hand is balled into a fist at his side. "You too," Castiel says, voice softer than usual. He doesn't look back as he leaves the room, doesn't allow himself a second thought until he's curled back in bed where in the privacy of the dark he wonders at the strange flutter in his chest. He know's what beating wings are like and likens the sensation to what is now and just minutes before assailing his chest. For once, he let's it be something he doesn't try to understand, since all in all it feels _good_ and God, he knows there isn't enough of that going around. It somehow doesn't surprise him that he sleeps soundly until morning.

 


	8. Useless (Part 1)

Castiel fiddles with his fingers passively as Dean and Sam converse in whispers just two feet away. Dean keeps glancing over his shoulder at him and Sam's eyebrows work between surprise and frustration. Eventually, the Winchesters cross directly into his line of vision and stand shoulder to shoulder, looking down at him in his chair. Castiel looks between Sam and Dean and waits.

"Alright," Dean begins sternly, "you can come."

Castiel celebrates this little victory inwardly, not a single facial muscle twitching to give away his excitement. He slides his gaze to Sam, who's looking down at him with a half-smile.

"Are you sure you're up for this?" Sam tilts his head in concern.

Castiel stands up and stares at the brothers. "Yes," he replies, pinning Dean with a level gaze, knowing well the older Winchester is the main reason he hasn't been out on a hunt before this. "I'm proficient with weapons and there remains more knowledge to me than either of you or your books," he argues, though neither of the Winchesters retort.

Sam smiles and comes around to where Castiel is standing, patting him firmly on the back. "Then let's do it," he says, eager to get going before they lose the whole morning. When he looks at his brother and notes his jaw clench he rolls his eyes. "Meet you in the car," he mumbles before hastily retreating.

Castiel tilts his chin up and furrows his brows, unsure of the way Dean's looking at him. Before the hunter can say a word, he begins: "Dean, look—"

"Your gun is in the trunk, so just grab a jacket and let's go," Dean interrupts, ignoring what Cas was going to say, knowing full well whatever it was and whatever he would have responded with, Cas would still be cramming himself into the backseat of the Impala. "Five minutes."

Castiel just barely smiles at Dean's back, eager to finally do something useful other than read and clean and wait for the brothers to return from hunting trips. He hasn't been caged in the bunker so to speak; the Winchester's have taken him out with them to restaurants and stores (he's even acquired a wardrobe on Dean's insistence), but about hunting Dean's been adamant—NO. Sam agreed with Dean, saying that it was better that Castiel take it easy. Nearly two months trickled past since then and Castiel finally feels ready, has taken to having a gun in his hand the way he took to his angelic blade.  He runs upstairs and picks out an army green jacket to shrug over a black t-shirt, pausing briefly to run his fingers over the wrinkled arm of his trenchcoat that hangs at the end. Sam and Dean are already in the car when he arrives and he silently slides into the backseat, catching Dean's eye in the rearview mirrorbefore the engine roars to life and they drive off.

Sam takes out a map and checks the route, quietly telling Dean which roads to take before turning back to look at Castiel. "Four bodies found in the woods, claw-like lacerations along the arms and legs, massive loss of blood, and reports say they'd been gone for weeks."

Castiel nods thoughtfully. "Vampire," he says without hesitation.

Sam smiles. "Sounds like it, how do we kill it?"

Castiel clicks his tongue and holds back from rolling his eyes; Sam's been babying him the same way Dean's has. "Beheading," he recites as though reading from a book, "dead man's blood helps weakens them," he adds. He quietly sighs in relief when Sam grins at him and turns away. Dean's watchful gaze does not escape him, though they only make brief eye contact and then only through the rearview mirror—which is all too familiar; a mirror, a wall, always something standing between a word, a touch, eclipsing the full weight of both.

Castiel watches the landscape roll by as they drive and falls asleep for the rest of the ride. It's evening when he wakes, which startles him because he finds that he's alone in the car. Shocked into a sitting position, thinking the brother's had left him behind,  he relaxes only once he's looked out the window. They've stopped at a gas station and he can see Sam through the windows chatting with the cashier and Dean browsing the sweets section. He gets out of the car and leans against it, looking up at the stars until he can hear heavy footfalls heading toward him.

"Finally awake, sleeping beauty?"

Castiel shrugs and eyes the candy in Dean's hands. He spies a pack of gummy bears and holds out his hand. "Are we near the town?"

"Few more miles," Sam replies, "we'll get a room for the night and head out in the morning."

Dean rips the gummy bear bag open and spills half of it into Cas' open palm. "You're like a cat, Cas. Sleep all day, awake all night."

Castiel pops a few gummies in his mouth and chews on them thoughtfully, staring at Dean blankly until the hunter sighs and waves him into the car. When they get to the hotel, he waits outside for the brothers.

"Looks like it's you and me tonight," Sam says as he walks out of the office, chucking Cas the keys. Behind him Dean is grinning, as always when he scores a night alone. They've taken to alternating roommates at random, which Castiel at first insisted they need not do on his account, though the Winchesters ignored him and made the rotations routine whenever all three of them were out.

Castiel checks the room number, grabs his pack out of the trunk and walks past the brothers. He turns back and nods at Dean saying: "goodnight, Dean." The hunter acknowledges him with a jerk of his head and a strangely frustrated expression, but Castiel ignores it and heads in for the night, leaving the door open for Sam. After he's showered and changed, he lies awake in the dimly lit room, wondering how the following days events will unfold. He hardly notices Sam come out and slip into bed next to his until he hears the click of the lamp and the room is swallowed by darkness.

"Sam? May I ask you a question of a personal nature?"

Sam turns the lamp back on and sits up in bed, looking over at Castiel curiously. "Sure. What's up?"

Castiel glances at Sam and then looks away, unsure. He chews on his words before speaking and even then speaks slowly and uncertainly. "How did it feel when you stopped drinking the demon blood?"

"What?" Sam's momentarily surprised, though he recovers from the abrupt query to form an answer. "Uhm, pretty bad actually, it was like an addiction you know? Took a physical toll."

Castiel nods thoughtfully and picks at his sheets. "But how did it feel? Not to be able to..."

"To exorcise demons from across the room? To throw monsters against the wall with just my mind?" Sam finishes for the former angel, sighing quietly. "It felt like losing a part of myself, but ultimately it was purifying."

Castiel nods. "I feel...," he begins and falters, squinting, "as though I am small." He supplements his meaning with gestures intended to impart to Sam his frustrations, though he cannot decide if the meaning truly comes across.

Sam sucks in his bottom lip and then smiles. "It's not going to be easy, Cas, but you'll be fine," he assures the now fully mortal sitting across from him. "You get used to it, you enjoy it, managing on your own strengths, your own abilities. It's a whole new feeling of accomplishment."

Castiel sighs, not entirely resolved to Sam's words though he is calmed. "Thank you, Sam. Goodnight." He lays down and turns away from the younger Winchester, eyes staring ahead blankly. Sam has known both planes of existence so to speak—human and supernatural—and mastered both, but Castiel has wadded into new waters, against the current and without the ability to swim as he sees it. He falls asleep, whatever excitement he had begun the trip with having evaporated into a dull ache in his chest.

In the morning he wakes early, even earlier than Sam and quietly washes up and changes, shrugging on his jeans disdainfully. Outside, dawn struggles to break through the clouds and birds are quietly chirping. The motel looks in a sorry state against the greyish hue of the sky but Castiel doesn't mind. He wanders over to the Impala and drops his bag at his feet, breathing in the chill air. He expects to be alone for the next hour but a few doors down from his and Sam's room, Dean emerges, swearing under his breath as he trips over a loose board on the bottom of the doorframe.

"Dean," Castiel says in greeting, an underlying tone of curiosity at Dean's early start evident in his voice.

Dean nods and drops his duffel bag next to Castiel's. "Couldn't sleep. You?"

"I'm not sure, I would have preferred to sleep a little longer," Castiel admits, usually in the habit of being the last to wake.

Clicking his tongue, Dean chuckles. "It's like you're trying to make it up for all the time you couldn't sleep," he jokes, stretching his arms above his head with a groan.

The red sun peeks over the horizon and its rays penetrate through the clouds, glinting off the chrome lining of the Impala and bouncing off Dean's hair, colouring it with an amber tone. Castiel feels like reaching out and brushing his fingers through the amber coloured strands. He supposes something in his face reflects his inner somberness because Dean fixes him with an intensely critical glare. Just as the hunter begins to speak, Sam comes out the hotel room and walks over to them. For once, Castiel is glad for the interruption and packs the bags away before getting into the Impala. 

Dean starts the engine and places his hand over the notebook and map Sam has taken out. "First, breakfast." 


	9. Useless (Part 2)

They talk about little but the case over breakfast and Castiel does little but nibble on his maple-syrup drenched pancakes and listen to the Winchesters discuss. It is as yet unclear if they are hunting a lone vampire or group, so they narrow down the areas of the small town where a coven could be found. Castiel does not relish the idea of failing to find a coven and having to sweep the entire town and surrounding forest for one creature. Dean and Sam take on their usual disguises posing as government agents to interview victim's families.They charge Cas with inspecting the murder sites for the sort of evidence that police might not recognize. 

Dean and Sam drop him off at the first site in possession of a handgun and a cellphone. Dean rolls down the window and taps his fingers against the wheel, staring at Cas with indecision. Finally, he jerks his head and growls: "Don't do anything stupid."

Castiel barely has a moment to register the words before he's left in a cloud of dust as the Impala drives off. A twinge of annoyance makes him roll his eyes and he wonders if stupidity were even possible when the Winchesters have given him the least dangerous task. What would have, at one point in his life, taken three minutes to do trickles into long hours; three hours and two sites later, the only thing Castiel can say for sure is that there have been murders. Frustrated and finally at the third site (the four not being far from each other) he combs the place with a close eye, yielding little but some tattered pieces of clothing and dried up blood on the ground. A quick glance at the time tells him he's due to reconvene with the Winchesters soon, but he walks the few streets to the last murder site instead and searches the area. He realizes he's on the edge of town, a sparsely inhabited area with two closed down mechanic shops and a boarded off factory which he assumes was a doomed to fail attempt to bring industry into the town. Mentally mapping his route, Castiel turns about in place and wonders why the offender has retreated away from the centre of town, exchanging fresh blood for none at all. Curious, he decides to peruse the surrounding buildings.

Inside the first mechanic shop there's nothing but old car parts and rusted tools littered across one surviving work bench. Old newspaper pages flutter quietly as the wind blows in through the cracked glass of the windows. Castiel kicks through various piles of rubble with little aim but stops when he hears a squelch. Crouching down, he runs his fingers along the ragged edges of rusty exhaust pipes and sucks in a breath when the tips of his fingers whet with blood. Standing upright, he holds his breath and strains to hear for movement, counting to fifteen before exhaling. With trembling fingers Castiel withdraws his gun from his holster and holds it out in front of him as he walks. Each step sounds much too loud to his sensitive ears. He makes his way to the back office and, in true hunter fashion, he kicks the office door open and follows the momentum in, gun poised and ready. The room is empty aside from a computer desk and scattered papers. Castiel breathes out his relief and brings his hand to his chest, feeling his accelerated heart rate through his jacket. Turning to leave, he stumbles back, eyes widening. By the door a pool of fresh blood drains from the body of a young male, skin pale and jaw torn off on one end. Certain that he is alone in the abandoned shop, Castiel retraces his steps and runs the last metre to the front door.

Intending to call Dean immediately, he's distracted by the creak of a door closing barely three feet away. Unwilling to withdraw the hold on his gun, Castiel sidesteps his way toward the factory from where the sound had come and elbows his way into the building. It's dark and dusty, the little light filtering through the spaces between the boards nailed into the factory windows serving only to illuminate the dust in the room. Castiel keeps close to the wall, his legs steady, eyes slowly growing accustomed to the somberness of the room. Aside from the sound of his shoes dragging across the ground and periodically thumping against strewn garbage, it's silent. When he reaches the far end of the room, where a hallway extends around the corner he leans against the wall and pauses. A sharp vibration hits him and before he can adequately react, a shrill ring erupts in the room. A floor above him, footsteps thump against the floor and Castiel curses and backs away from the corner.

"Cas?"

Dean's voice is gruff and angry, a tone not unfamiliar to Castiel. "Dean," he hisses, straining to hear for the footsteps again, "Dean, I'm in the factory, it's here."

"Where are you?" Dean asks, voice simmering to a deadly calm.

"Where the last victim was killed," Castiel whispers, flinching at a crash resounding down the hall. "Dean, I have to hang up now."

"Just get out of there," Dean growls into the phone, gas pedal pressed to the floor.

Nodding, Castiel slides the phone back into his pocket and slowly continues to back away toward the door. The few minutes it took him to reach the the corner of the hallway going in feels doubled on the way back and the silence bears down on him. It's too dark to see and too dark to shoot, even for a decent shot like him. Just as he thought he'd reached the door a sharp blow on his left side flings him against the wall. Clutching his side, he drops his gun and warm blood soaks his shirt and hand. Somewhere in the room the vampire shrieks and Castiel curses his feeble human eyesight. With fingers splayed he searches the floor, curling his fingers around the end of a short pipe. Scrambling to his feet he follows the lit up film of dust above his head and drives the pipe into the window, smashing the glass before redoubling his efforts. The board gives way in three blows and clatters to the ground outside, allowing for a sizeable rectangle of light to enter the room. Whipping around, Castiel holds out the pipe defensively and scans the room, catching sight of a shadowy figure scale the wall and disappear into the unpenetrated darkness.

Two shots erupt and ricochet against the back wall, followed by Dean and Sam running into the room. Sam steps ahead of Dean with his gun poised, eyes scanning the room while Dean spies Castiel and hastens to his side, sweeping the fallen gun off of the floor.

"Cas, you alright?"

Wincing and clutching his side, Castiel nods. "This creature is particularly feral, Dean."

"There's no coven in town, it looks like it's just this guy. Not only that, but dude's been doing this every ten years," Dean explains, grabbing Castiel's arm to drag him toward the door. In the light he notices the blood on Castiel's jacket and pushes him outside. "Wait in the car."

Castiel stands back, letting go of his injury despite the fact that the gash from the vampire's claws continues bleeding and steps back into the room, snatching his gun from Dean's waist. His gaze is defiant when Dean turns on him and he considers Dean's silence a reluctant assent to his presence. Sam's already half way across the room, gesturing for Dean to go round the other side. Castiel hangs back and finds the pipe he had dropped, moving from window to window to let the late afternoon light penetrate the room. When finished with the last window he hears Sam shout Dean's name and take off running down the hallway, swifter footsteps audibly preceding Sam down the hall.

Considering his options as Dean's figure disappears into the dark after Sam, Castiel runs to the opposite end of the room and hits the stairwell leading to the second floor, intending to cut the vampire's escape route off. And whether luckily or unluckily for him, the creature comes running toward him and he pulls the trigger twice in the direction of its footsteps as it approaches in the dark of the second floor, only momentarily illuminated by Sam's flashlight. He can hear Sam calling his name from across the room: "BLOCK THE DOOR!"

Firmly planting his feet apart Castiel stands firm in the doorframe, holding himself back from jumping into the dark when he hears Sam grunt and fall to the floor. Dean spares no ammunition as he rushes to his brother, Castiel can hear him stand Sam up and curse the lack of light. The flashlights they hold illuminate too little in the room and the vampire is too quick, scuttling along the ceiling and the floor out of sight, attacking the legs to drop the hunter's to the floor. Castiel struggles to make out any shape in the dark and glimpses the vampire in a flash of light, then Sam as he follows it and Dean behind him, jerking the flashlight back and forth as he runs. One of the flashlights flies across the room and Castiel calls Dean's name, unable to tell whose flashlight it had been. He hurls himself after the fallen object and once in his hand he points it toward the other one, lighting up Sam's figure and behind him, a thin, hunched figure. Castiel raises his gun and shoots, hitting the vampire in the shoulder. When it shrieks and turns, he has his light pointed straight at it and follows it as it dashes out of sight. Sam corrals the creature toward Dean and a sickening slice echoes in the room. Castiel jumps back when something thumps against his leg and points his light down, illuminating a pale, bloodied face with deeply sunken in eyes, fangs glistening with saliva.

He rushes over to Sam, who's rubbing at his shoulder and silently follows the brothers out of the factory, the three of them panting. Dean starts laughing as they near the Impala and leans his back against the driver's door. "Man, that was one nasty vampire."

Sam shakes his head as he walks around to the trunk. "That was a vampire who'd never even tried to pass off as human, like what we would have been hunting a hundred years ago."

Castiel frowns as he nears Dean, eyeing the gashes on his cheek and the reddish marks along his neck critically. With a sigh he holds out his fingers and places them against the reddened skin above Dean's left eye. Dean winces at the pressure.

"Uh, Cas?"

Castiel ignores the questioning tone at first, but then the realization that Dean's still bleeding and still bruised settles in and Castiel's cheeks flush a deep red as he staggers back. "I," he falters, shocked and mortified by his mistake, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Dean smiles lightly and shrugs, waving his hand in the air. "Hey man, it doesn't matter. I survived worse long before you."

Though the words are clearly meant to reassure Castiel, they take the air out of his lungs and he drops his gaze. "Yes. I understand." He touches his wounded torso and presses against the gash until the pain sharpens, helping him move his stiff legs and walk around the car and climb into the backseat. The ride back to the hotel is quiet and Castiel stares out the window, cheeks still tinged pink. 

When they arrive and Sam unloads the bags, he pops a questioning brow in Dean's direction, which his brother answers by rotating his index finger in the air. Nodding, Sam hands Castiel and Dean their bags, pausing to squeeze Cas' shoulder. "Well, I'm gonna head to bed, night." 

Dean waits until Sam is gone before nodding in the direction of his room. "Let's go."

Castiel silently follows, registering the subtle yet conspicuous exchange between the brothers and knowing full well what it means. Inside, Dean shrugs off his jacket and disappears into the bathroom. Castiel sits down on the bed and gently removes his jacket, peeling off his t-shirt with equal care. With a certain amount of bitterness he inspects his wound, caked in dried blood and not as deep as he had imagined at first. 

Dean emerges from the bathroom and stops, eyeing Castiel's state. He walks over with a medical kit and kneels down next to the former angel, soaking a towel with hydrogen peroxide before handing it to Castiel. He watches the angel clean his wound and sits back, reflecting on the horrified and helpless look that had crossed Castiel's face when he could not heal him. "Cas, don't smudge it around, wipe it off."

As he cleans, Castiel notices that the wound is flanked by bruises, strangely beautiful like red flowers with specks of blue. He runs his finger around the contours of the gash and looks up at Dean, reaching out to run his fingers by the similar claw mark across Dean's cheek. The hunter's eyelashes flutter in surprise but he does not move away. Castiel grazes the corner of Dean's lip when he lets his hand drop and he takes the cotton ball Dean has dipped in a thick white paste to apply to his wound. Dean silently finishes for him by placing a large adhesive pad over the now cleaned and blistering red area. 

Dean stands up and sits down next to Castiel, turning to face him. He holds out a clean towel and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, sparing words though his urge to write off any remotely intimate moment with a joke brings up a thousand useless comments into his throat. He follows Castiel's hand and closes his eyes when he feels the sting of the disinfecting alcohol on his skin. Neither of their cuts will need stitches but they'll both be sporting faint scars afterwards, for Dean one of many but for the former angel, his first. Castiel is gentle and meticulous, applying ointment and a bandaid with extra care, ghosting his fingers across Dean's skin as if he were afraid to touch it. Dean opens his eyes and pats down the bandaid, smiling. "See, there are other ways to heal, to help, it'll take some time, but still," he says reassuringly, holding Castiel's gaze. "You did good today, Cas." 

Castiel narrows his gaze as he works out the discomfort in his chest, exhaling loudly. Dean's neck and forehead have begun to bruise and Castiel's bruises reflect the same hues and darkened tones. He looks down at the cotton balls and ointments and disinfectants in the medical kit and back to Dean, attempting a smile. "I forgot that losing my grace meant losing this," he mutters, lifting his hand and twitching his fingers, "healing was...redemption." To his surprise, Dean's fingers curl around his wrist and his hand is pulled toward Dean's face, gently placed against Dean's cheek.

"This is healing, the hard way. Redemption, the hard way, like it's supposed to be. Slow, tedious and with scars to show for it," Dean answers in a tone that is as much assuring as it is reflective. His fingers absently move against Castiel's, a ghost of a caress. "That's the only way it means anything, Cas." 

Castiel nods slowly, letting Dean's words ease the struggle in his mind. Though his hands feel limp, devoid of their previous abilities, he wonders at their other abilities, like applying a bandage to a cut or pulling the trigger of a gun or feeling the warmth of another's skin. At this last thought, Castiel's eyes flicker to Dean's cheek, feeling the gentle pressure of Dean's hand over his own and his heart pounds.

Dean notices Castiel's attention and tenses, eyes dropping to Castiel's lips and then flicking back up to his eyes. For a moment Castiel seems to sway forward and Dean feels a violent pulse of energy shoot through him. He let's go of Castiel's hand and looks away, chuckling. "Besides, of all the things you could miss why isn't the teleporting one of them? You loved doing that crap." 

Castiel lets his hand drop and tilts his head. "I've grown accustomed to other modes of transportation." 

With a groan, Dean stands and stretches, wincing at the pull from his pained muscles. He nods absently. "Yeah, yeah. Speaking of, we'll head back early so get some sleep," he says, glancing at the single bed with misgiving. "I'll take the couch. Try to not to move around so much, you'll reopen the wound."

Castiel acknowledges the words with a nod and watches Dean change his t-shirt and plop down on the couch near the front door. He lies down on his back, ignoring the throbbing from his side. A thought wanders in his mind, one he cannot quite make out though he knows it is urging him toward something. Its elusive nature lies in his inexperience with humanity, his inability to put a concrete word to the thought. Castiel struggles to make sense of it for a few minutes but it culminates in him listening to the sound of Dean's breathing, soft and even. He reflects on the way they'd hunted the vampire, his finger steady on the trigger, his touch careful on Dean's cheek, Dean's warm in return and he closes his eyes, unable to fathom why he'd felt so deeply appalled when he could not heal; he had not lost the ability, just the instantaneity of the act. The very act of pressing the wet towel to Dean's cheek proved that. Castiel realizes that the fighting and the bleeding differ only in the sense that he carries the scars from them now. 

_This is healing._


	10. Sickness

Castiel leans his head against the glass of the Impala's back window, content to listen to the car's gentle hum rather than Dean's music, which Sam has finally turned off. His head pounds painfully and has been for the past hour. 

They're on their way home from a previously haunted farmhouse in Jackson County, South Dakota, which to Castiel's surprise proved a much more challenging job than expected. With three ghosts, no graves, and four buildings on the property to scour Cas and the brothers were kept busy all through the night. When they'd finally found the objects they needed to destroy to release the spirits, it was dawn. Cas had been given a small bag of salt and an iron rod since the brothers didn't have an extra rifle on hand. On one occasion late into the evening, when a spirit manifested itself before him just as he was rounding the hallway, Cas had flung a handful of salt at it, intending of course for the ghost to be hit, whereupon Dean had just rounded the corner and received it in his face. Castiel later complained that the ghost had clearly intended for that to happen, but neither of the brothers seemed particularly keen on that explanation. Dean had called him a scaredy-cat and rubbed at his eyes so dramatically that Sam ended up laughing.

Castiel glances at the rear view mirror then and rolls his eyes when he sees Dean rubbing at his eye again. It could have been the iron rod instead of the salt, so Dean should be glad - _he_ is.  

"I say we stop in Omaha for some grub, we've been driving for hours," Dean suggests, tilting his head to get a look at a passing road sign. 

The two lane highway runs through a small forest, and the sun is filtering through the rustling leaves and making the rays dance on the road. Every few minutes a car comes down the opposite way, but otherwise it's quiet and smooth-going.

Sam agrees and looks over his shoulder at Castiel. "You alright with that?"

Castiel nods. He's not particularly hungry but every bump in the road makes his head pound even more and he can use the fresh air, maybe some water. He hunches down in his seat and sighs, his breath fogging up the glass. It takes him a moment to realize Sam's still looking at him.

"What is it, Sam?"

Sam frowns, looking over Castiel's face. "You don't look so good, Cas," he says, "are you feeling okay?" 

Castiel's eyes slide over to the rearview mirror almost instinctually to catch Dean's eye. "I have a headache, but otherwise I'm fine," he replies, forcing himself to sit up and smile under the scrutiny.

Dean looks back at the road and clicks his tongue. "He's fine, Sammy." He then speeds ahead of bulky van exiting the highway and turns sharply in order to cut in front of it. The driver of the van blares his horn angrily, but Dean ignores him and drives on. 

The sharp turn hits Castiel's head like a brick and he imagines that how he's feeling now is how Dean might have felt if Cas had hit that ghost with the rod. Humanity is strange, he thinks; he can deal with cuts and bruises that take time to heal, he likes driving well enough, even sleeping where he never had to before but some things about humans make him sorely miss being an Angel. Like not having headaches. Ever. It's only when Dean parks the car that the pounding in his head abates, but when he gets out everything spins out of focus and he has to lean against the Impala for support.

Dean pops the trunk and rummages in his duffel bag, extracting a small pill bottle which he chucks to Cas. "Take two with some water, it'll help with the headache." 

Castiel places two fingers to his temple and sighs, nodding. "Thank you, Dean." He follows the brothers at a distance and heads to the bathroom instead of the table when they enter the diner. When he sees himself in the mirror he grimaces; his eyes look heavy and his complexion sallow. He downs the two pills with tap water and the taste of it lingers at the back of his throat when he walks over to the table. Dean makes space for him on the wooden bench and turns his whole body to look at him. Sam casts a long calculating look in his direction and Castiel folds his hand neatly together on the table and ignores them.

"Cas, are you sure you're okay?" Sam asks, concerned.

"Because you're starting to look like shit," Dean adds with a raised brow.

Sam slides the menu over to Cas and looks at it pointedly. "You should eat something." 

Castiel shakes his head. "I'm not hungry, and I'm fine," he lies, taking the pill bottle out of his pocket to hand to Dean. "I took two." 

When the waitress comes over, Cas orders tea and asks for some lemon and honey. Dean sighs next to him, but doesn't fight him over the order and orders a burger for himself. Sam orders a soup and salad. Over lunch, Castiel musters up all his strength to appear the opposite of how he feels, which comes easier when the pills kick in and his headache subsides. The tea warms him, but holding the cup makes his hands sweat. Castiel sips at his tea and watches the clock hanging above the door tick away. His skin feels hot, but the beads of sweat trickling down his spine are cold. By the time Dean pushes his plate away and slaps some bills down on the table, Castiel can barely stand it. 

"I feel unusually weak and unsteady," he admits as they walk to the car, if anything just to get the brothers to stop watching his every move. Sam opens the door for him and Castiel lowers himself into his seat with a grunt. It takes too much effort to shrug his jacket off. "How long until we get back?" he asks, rubbing his palms against his pants to dry them off.

"About three hours," Sam replies, turning in his seat to get a better look at Castiel. He leans over the seat and places his palm against Castiel's damp forehead. "Cas, you're really burning up." 

Sam's palm feels cool against his heated skin and Castiel sighs, leaning into the touch. "What does that mean?" he asks, swaying forward when Sam removes his hand.

"Means we should get you home," Dean grunts, checking his mirrors quickly before backing out. He shrugs when Sam glances at him and speeds up once they hit open road.

For the rest of the ride Cas drifts in and out of sleep, waking when the sun hits him directly in the face and falling asleep again only to wake up when the car hits a bump in the road. By the time they drive into the bunker, the sun slips under the horizon and leaves a pale orange streak in an otherwise darkening sky. It's the last thing Cas sees before the door lowers behind them. Sam was telling him that he probably got sick from the sniffling, red-eyed farmers wife who had made them all tea, but it makes no difference to Castiel. Dean starts to say something but Cas can only focus on climbing out of the car and staggering to his room. He stumbles through the bunker, hardly able to keep his eyes open and struggles with the doorknob to his room. Once inside, he shrugs off his shirt and kicks off his shoes, falling onto the bed with a relieved groan. 

Several blessed moments of silence roll by until two knocks at the door sound. Castiel acknowledges them with a grunt.

Dean comes in and hesitates briefly by the door before walking over the bed. "Uh, Sam's gone to get some chicken noodle soup and meds," he tells Castiel, taking in his careless position on the bed, bare back glistening with sweat and one leg hanging off the side. "Get some shut eye, I'll bring you meds later."

Castiel stirs and sits up, somewhat aware that he's not in the habit of being half-naked around Dean but unable to figure out how that's supposed to make him feel, especially when his overriding thought is how not to pass out. "I feel horrible, Dean," he mumbles, holding a hand to his forehead. 

Dean smiles tight lipped and then chuckles. "You're human now, Cas," he admonishes playfully, "we get sick sometimes and it sucks." His eyes bounce from Castiel's face down to his bare chest and then away to some obscure point on the wall. When he looks back, Castiel is smiling at him lazily. Dean feels the corners of his lips quirk up in response but then Cas falls back and shivers visibly. "Hey," Dean starts urgently, kneeling down to touch Cas' forehead, "get under the covers." 

Castiel shakes his head. "I'm too tired," he whines, hating the way the sheets stick to his skin and hating even more that Dean has to see him this way. He feels Dean's hand on his shoulder tugging at him but he only makes half an effort to stand up. When Dean blows out an exasperated breath it tickles his face.

"Come on, Cas. Don't be a baby," Dean grumbles as he forcibly pulls Castiel up. Cas sags on him, chin propped on his shoulder; his breath comes out hot against Dean's neck when he groans. Dean keeps a hand on Castiel's waist to hold him up while struggling to throw the covers back. When he lays Cas down it's with two arms around his limp body. He glances over his shoulder at the door and then back at Cas, who is absently nuzzling his face into the pillow. "I'll check on you later," he promises though he's not entirely sure that Cas hears him. 

"I don't need," Castiel begins to mumble sleepily, eyes hooded and cheeks red, "I don't need you to take care of me." 

Dean's silent for a moment but then lets out a short laugh. "You know who says things like that? Babies. Sam let me take care of him," Dean tells him, shaking his head with a fond smile. "And Sam was sick a lot when we were kids." 

Castiel hums, enjoying the low timbre of Dean's voice though he only half-hears what he's saying. "Did you make him soup, Dean?" Castiel inquires, voice muffled by the pillow.

"Yeah, it was like a freaking miracle in a box," Dean answers, laughing to himself at some memory before sitting down at the edge of the bed near Cas. "Sam used to get snot running-down-his-chin, chain-smoker cough sick," Dean recalls, looking down at Castiel with a small smile. "He wanted soup in bed, chocolate in bed, or on the couch if that's where the TV was," Dean continues telling him, "and he loved to tell me that I had to be extra nice to him, since he was sick and all." The corner of Castiel's lips curl up and Dean arches a brow. "Don't get any ideas, Cas" he warns him, but when Castiel doesn't answer, Dean gently stands up.

Castiel feels the weight of Dean lift from the bed and blindly reaches for him. "Wait," he says, catching Dean's wrist and clasping it tightly. When he feels Dean sit back down and shift closer to him he loosens his hold. For a second he forgets what he was going to ask but then Dean pulls his arm from his grip and takes his hand instead. If Cas had been more lucid he might have been shocked by the action, even nervous, but he curls his fingers around Dean's instead. Dean's skin is warm and dry and though his own is clammy, Dean presses his hand. It somehow helps him to remember. "Who took care of  _you_?" 

Dean looks down at Castiel's hand and brushes his thumb overtop Cas' knuckles. Castiel's hold on him lessens and Dean gently tucks his arm under the covers. For a moment he stands by the bed, listening to Castiel's even breathing and then lets out a short breath and walks to the door. He pauses to look back. Castiel's sleeping, but he answers him anyway.

"No one." 

In the morning, Sam brings Castiel hot tea, a small bowl of chicken noodle soup, a glass of water and a bottle of red, syrupy medicine. He sets them down one by one off his tray very deliberately and Castiel eyes the medicine and grimaces. Sam hands him a spoon last.

"Take the medicine every four hours," Sam tells him, reading the back of the bottle before placing it in Castiel's hand. "Eat the soup, it will make you feel better even if you're not hungry. The tea is just in case you want it, I put a slice of lemon into it." 

Castiel swallows a spoonful of the medicine and washes it down with the water. Sam nods at him approvingly and watches him pick up the soup. Castiel looks up and frowns.

"Sam, thank you, but is it necessary for you to remain here? I appreciate the attention, however...."

Sam puts his hands up in the air in mock surrender and smiles. "I'm going, but Dean might come up later and make sure you had your soup," Sam warns him. "I mean, it's from a box but I think he took some pride in it."

"Like he used to make for you," Castiel comments absently, placing the bowl under his nose to inhale the smell. It's warm and coats his throat with the taste of chicken.

Sam looks surprised and then smiles easily.

"Yeah, I guess he did."

After Sam leaves, Castiel forces himself to finish at least half of the bowl. He leaves the tea untouched and falls back into a dreamless slumber. Hours later he wakes up in a cold sweat and absently notices that his bedside table has been cleared aside from the medicine, a replenished glass of water and a clean spoon. He downs another spoonful of the the red syrup and tries to sleep. Day and night mean little in the bunker and Castiel feels time pass in waves of heat that make him twist and turn and drench his sheets in sweat. His body feels like its on fire and his head so heavy that he can hardly lift it off the pillow to turn over. Hours trickle away and he sleeps for what feels like mere minutes.

The second day he feels somewhat better, though when he changes his clothes and ambles downstairs Dean barks at him to get his ass back in bed and stay there until his fever is gone. Castiel doesn't argue, mostly because he tries to hide the fact that he's panting from the effort to walk to kitchen. All day he takes spoonfuls of medicine, sips at his soup, sleeps and leaves his bed only to go to the bathroom. Dean sits with him for a while in the afternoon- an unexpected delight- and tells him about how he and Sam have been watching Game of Thrones, naming all sorts of characters Castiel can't keep track of, though he listens happily.

"Anyway, I'd better let you sleep," Dean finishes, standing up and clapping his hands together. "Uh, is there anything you need or whatever?"

Castiel finishes the last bit of soup and hands Dean the bowl, shaking his head. "No, I'm feeling much better."

"See, miracle in a freaking box," Dean says, smiling.

"Sam would say it's the medicine," Castiel counters, his brow raised teasingly. "But thank you for the soup, Dean, and..." he pauses, looking up at Dean a little sheepishly and becoming very much aware of how for the past two days he's been lying in bed with the brothers ferrying food and water to him, "and for taking care of me." 

Dean lets out a short and shaky laugh. "Yeah, man, it's no big deal," he replies, shrugging, "don't worry about it." 

"I would be interested in knowing what happens in your show," Castiel adds, before Dean beats a retreat as he so often does, literally and figuratively, when Castiel crosses any line of sincerity. Cas doesn't really hold an opinion on Dean's knee-jerk reaction of turning any sentimental comment into a joke, unless the situation is extreme and a precursor to possible death, but his heart still swells at the way Dean stops at the door and graces him with a half-smile before leaving. 

Castiel forces down more medicine and settles down to sleep. 

That night he sleeps with ease and dreams. In his dreams he's still an Angel, powerful and strong, eternal. He dreams of oceans, dark and deep and of snow capped mountain tops where the air is too thin to breathe. Mostly he dreams of forests, quiet and still, made up of thousands of shades of emerald. In his dreams he's an Angel, with wings that can take him anywhere, with forever in his grasp, but he walks through green forest, with moss that quiets his steps and old trees that soar into the sky. The air is warm and moist, heavy even, and he feels at home.

Castiel wakes up to Dean knocking on his door and stepping in. His hair is flattened on one side which Castiel assumes is from the way he slept but his eyes are bright and awake.

"Hey, Sam and I thought you might be feeling up to having breakfast with us?"

Castiel considers Dean for a moment and then nods. "Yes, thank you, I would." Castiel crawls out of bed and takes a change of clothes to the bathroom with him. He showers and washes his hair, head swimming from the steam and heat. Afterward he strips his bed down, leaving the sheets balled up by his door and heads to the kitchen, where he can smell freshly made coffee.

Sam sees him first and stands up to meet him, pulling Castiel into a tight hug.

Castiel grunts in surprise, face mashed into Sam's shoulder and then smiles, putting his arms around Sam to hug him back. When Sam lets him go he smiles with one side of his mouth and looks at him questioningly. 

Sam just shakes his head. "I don't know, first sickness and all. I keep forgetting you're..."

"Human," Castiel finishes, sighing. Sam's always careful to bring up the subject, as though it would hurt him in some way, so Castiel smiles reassuringly at him. "I sometimes do too."

"Until you're reminded," Dean chimes in, walking over to Cas with a hot cup of tea. 

Cas takes the cup and sips at it, watching Dean as he retrieves a pan and then peruses the refrigerator until Sam pushes him out of the way and declares that for once he'll make breakfast. Dean argues but relents after a stern look from his brother, and Castiel feels warmth spread through his chest. 

"You should probably go sit down, Cas, this might take a while."

Sam turns to glare at Dean but Dean shrugs innocently, which makes Castiel chuckle. He catches the imploring look Sam sends his way and coaxes Dean out of the kitchen. They walk to the library and when Dean doesn't sit down, Castiel just leans against the table.

"So, how are you feeling?" Dean asks, leaning on the bookshelf across the room, which is not really so far but an awkward enough distance that he shifts uncomfortably because of it.

Cas shrugs and puts his tea down. "Weak," he admits, "but I believe the worst is over and am glad for it. That was a terrible experience."

The cup emanates warmth by his hand and Castiel looks down at it for a moment before looking back up at Dean. He can hear the clinking of cutlery from the kitchen and something sizzling. Dean watches him closely, but looks away when Castiel meets his eye and Castiel almost moves to close the distance between them. There are fine lines cornering Dean's eyes, and days old stubble on his chin and around his jaw. 

"How are you?"

Dean looks up, surprised. "Me?" he asks, shaking his head with a laugh as though the question were absurd. "Peachy."

Castiel tilts his head. He recalls Dean touch briefly upon his hand, right before he'd gone to sleep that first night. A rare moment of vulnerability, probably because Dean had assumed he was too feverish to have noticed. 

"Smells good," Dean comments after the lengthy silence, smiling briefly to alleviate the waves of tension Castiel is sending his way, "Sam's learned a thing or two from me all these years after all."

"You know," Castiel starts, straightening up to be eye level with Dean even though they are still standing across the room from each other, "you should give him more credit than that."

"Yeah, yeah, drink your tea," Dean retorts, looking away from Castiel. When Castiel begins to walk toward him he pushes himself off of the bookshelf and steps toward the doorway. "We should go give him a hand with the plates."

"I heard you that night."

"What?" Dean stops mid-step, halted by the tone in Castiel's voice rather than the words he spoke.

The momentary surprise allows Castiel to take the remaining steps toward Dean. When he reaches him, the words melt away into silence in his head and all he can do is gaze into Dean's confused and flushing face.

Sam's voice cuts the silence as he bellows from the kitchen.

"Two minutes, you guys!!"

"I heard you," Cas repeats. He thinks about Sam and how he brought him medicine and water, how he was making them breakfast now and attempts a light smile. "You've always taken care of Sam, but he can take care of you now too."

"I don't need people taking care of me," Dean retorts, furrowing his brows in confusion at the turn in conversation. "Cas, man, what are you talking about?"

"I asked you who took care of you back then, you said no one. That may have been true," he says thoughtfully, watching the slight flush blooming on Dean's cheeks, "but not anymore."

Dean struggles to form a reply and lapses into silence, one brow slowly drawn up. "Uh, right."  Castiel's casual, matter-of-fact tone on the subject is bewildering and Dean pins him with a dubious look. "Cas, just drink your tea."

Castiel can hear Sam preparing plates down the hall, and Dean's trying hard to ignore him so Cas reaches out and places his hand on Dean's bicep. When Dean doesn't jerk away, Castiel smiles. "You have Sam," Castiel tells him, feeling a slight flutter in his chest when Dean's eyes settle on him instead of bouncing away, "and you have me."   
  
Dean's furrows his brows and searches Castiel's face, mouth slightly agape. His eyes fall down to where Castiel's hand is gripping his arm, and when it rises to his neck his throat closes up and he forgets to breathe.  
  
"I'll take care of you," Cas whispers, voice low with certainty. He lets his thumb move in gentle lines along Dean's jaw and runs his eyes over all the little details of Dean's face before settling back on Dean's guarded gaze. He experimentally runs his fingers up Dean's face and brushes them over his ear. Dean's jaw clenches and Cas can feel him stiffen, fingers curled into a fist when Castiel looks down. Steps echo from down the hall and Cas sighs, stepping away and crossing back to the table.   
  
"Okay! Cas, some extra veggies for you because you have build up some energy," Sam says cheerily as he glides into the room with two plates in his hand, "and extra bacon for Dean so he won't complain about anything."

"Complain? Me?" Dean snorts as he walks over, sitting down where Sam put his plate. "Finally! I was beginning to think we'd never eat," Dean exclaims, grabbing a fork and knife from Sam's hands. 

Sam rolls his eyes and hands Cas his cutlery. "Dean, that's a complaint." 

Castiel smiles. 

"I'll go grab mine," Sam says, and heads back to the kitchen.  

Dean pops several pieces of bacon into his mouth and chews noisily, crunching and licking the grease off his lips all while looking anywhere but at Castiel, who is sitting across from him waiting patiently for Sam to return and watching Dean.

Cas considers saying something, but thinks better of it and bites his tongue. Dean chews furiously and breathes loudly, only loosening up when Sam comes in and sits next to him. Castiel starts on his omelette and compliments Sam with a vigorous nod as he eats. They eat in silence for a while and Castiel catches Sam looking between him and Dean with a curious look, but then Dean starts asking Sam if he's found any cases and he drops the questioning glances. When Castiel finally stops trying to catch Dean's eye he feels a light tap against his ankle. He glances up at Dean but the hunter is staring at his plate and chewing emphatically. Castiel shifts his leg and knocks Dean's knee. Dean slowly looks up at him and Castiel feels a bump against his leg again and this time Dean graces him with a nearly imperceptible nod and a quick but small smile.   
  
Castiel's lips stretch into a clumsy smile that he hides by finishing the rest of the his food. Dean's touch feels almost casual, accidental but it's not and  the knowledge makes his chest feel full. He sighs and leans back, thanks Sam and insists that he'll wash the dishes even though Sam tries to argue against it.  
  
"So, feeling good, Cas?" Sam asks, wiping his mouth with a tissue.  
  
Castiel thinks for a moment and glances at Dean, who looks away immediately though his leg remains pressed against Castiel's under the table. Cas closes his eyes and smiles before looking back at Sam.  
  
"More than you know."

 


End file.
